


Landed

by Magnolia822



Series: The Landed Series [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin meet on a flight to London and annoy each other to no end.  But then Arthur leaves his phone behind on the plane, facing Merlin with the task of either returning it or throwing it out of his hotel window. Banter and love ensue. The third fic in the Landed series. This is how it all started, folks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landed

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Asya_Ana for the beta!

There was apparently a limit to the amount of shit Merlin Emrys could take in one day. He stood by the baggage carousel in Heathrow airport waiting for his baggage: first five minutes, then ten. All of the rest of the passengers had come and collected their belongings, but Merlin’s suitcase was nowhere to be found. It must have been lost sometime during his New York connection. Just his luck.  
  
Merlin was a generally amicable person, but this was the rancid icing on the shitty cake. He stomped over toward the baggage claim check, the only belongings to his name his backpack and a cell phone that wasn’t even his. It was the property of Arthur Pendragon, the first real British person Merlin’d ever met, and what a disappointment he’d been. Merlin had grown up watching _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and _All Creatures Great and Smal_ l, so when he found himself seated next to Arthur he’d expected manners, humor, class.  
  
What he’d gotten had been much different.  
  
First Arthur was annoyed that he’d been booked in coach and expressed his distaste—loudly. Then he’d complained about the airline’s available alcoholic beverage selection. He’d spent almost an hour glaring at the in-flight movie with the headphones on his ears, rattling the cord in the jack to get the sound to work. And apparently he didn’t approve of Merlin. Not only had he criticized Merlin’s taste in music, he’d categorized him as an uncouth American and insulted the entire state of Idaho in the process.  
  
Too bad the blond bastard was one of the hottest guys Merlin had ever met. Perfect arms. Sexy accent. Blue, blue eyes, and slightly crooked teeth that only made the entire package more appealing.  
  
Package. Merlin didn’t need to think about Arthur’s package, even if the glimpse he’d gotten—more like a face full, really, since Arthur had struggled over Merlin’s lap when he’d gone to the bathroom—was very promising indeed. Of course when he returned they got in another fight over the armrest and had permanently rid Merlin of all further interest. And when they finally landed an hour later than scheduled, Arthur had exited the plane so quickly he left his Blackberry behind.  
  
Reluctantly, Merlin had taken Arthur’s cell phone, planning on passing it back to him near the baggage carousel, but when he’d arrived there was no trace of the guy. While Merlin waited for his own, he turned on Arthur’s phone.  
  
There were several brief texts from someone with Arthur’s last name. Perhaps his father? Not that Merlin was snooping; he was just trying to find out how to get in touch with the guy.  
  
 **From: Uther Pendragon  
To: Arthur Pendragon**  
  
 _Be here at twelve. You have responsibilities._  
  
 **From: Uther Pendragon  
To: Arthur Pendragon**  
  
 _There better be a good reason for this._  
  
 **From: Uther Pendragon  
To: Arthur Pendragon**  
  
 _It’s too late. Don’t bother coming._  
  
After he’d read the last message, Merlin started to feel a bit guilty. He’d begun to see why Arthur was such a miserable ass. No wonder he’d been so impatient when the flight hadn’t left on time, his leg shaking like he was in the midst of an epileptic seizure.  
  
“Can I help you, Sir?” the woman at the baggage counter asked Merlin when it was finally his turn, drawing him out of his head.  
  
He nodded, glanced over his shoulder toward the empty carousel. “Yes. My bag . . . it never arrived.”  
  
The attendant gave him an empty smile and made dispassionate inquiries, which turned up nothing. Merlin’s suitcase was nowhere to be found, and he was in London for a week with nothing to wear but the clothes on his back. Luckily he’d kept his money in his carry on—his travelers’ guide had been helpful in that respect, at least.  
  
It was late evening when Merlin finally checked into his hotel near Charing Cross. He was tempted to go straight to bed and forget about the whole day, start fresh in the morning, but Arthur’s phone had started beeping again.  
  
 **From: Uther Pendragon  
To: Arthur Pendrago**n  
  
 _I’m disappointed in you, Arthur._  
  
Maybe he’d have been better off turning it in at the airport lost and found, Merlin thought. He’d located Arthur’s home number among his contacts and sat wondering if he should just chuck the thing out of the third-story hotel window instead. Ultimately, though, Merlin had been raised to be a polite Midwestern boy. He could act the grown-up about this even if the guy didn’t really deserve it.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he pressed _send._  
  
The phone rang and rang; Merlin was about to hang up when an irritated voice answered, demanding, “Where’s my phone?”  
  
All thoughts of amicability flew out the window. “At The Charing Thistle, though I probably should have dropped it in the toilet. Do you always talk to people who do you favors so rudely?”  
  
“Wait a minute, who is this?”  
  
“Merlin. From the plane. You know, guy from the Midwest. Bad taste in music?”  
  
“Did you steal my phone?”  
  
The accusation made Merlin leap up from his supine position and pace around the room. “No I didn’t steal your stupid phone! You left it on your seat, I’ll have you know, and instead of leaving it there for someone else to steal, I picked it up.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur said, a confused edge to his voice.  
  
“Yeah. Oh.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“A thank you would be nice,” Merlin said.  
  
“ . . . Thank you.” The words sounded as if they’d been elicited at gunpoint.  
  
“I’ll leave it at the front desk. The Charing Thistle. You can come pick it up whenever, but I’m going to bed.”  
  
“No!” Arthur said. “No. I’d prefer you didn’t do that.”  
  
“I’m tired, and I frankly don’t care what you prefer.” Merlin scrubbed his free hand through his hair, looked at himself in the mirror. This guy was fucking unreal.  
  
“I meant leave it at the front desk. I’d rather you not,” Arthur replied, a bit—just a bit—less acerbically.  
  
“Why not?” Merlin demanded.  
  
“There’s sensitive information on that phone, and I don’t feel comfortable giving complete strangers access. It could be stolen.”  
  
“But I’m a complete stranger. I could steal it.”  
  
“If you were going to steal my phone, you wouldn’t have called me.”  
  
Merlin didn’t have a response for that. He let out a deep sigh.  
  
“When can you get here?”  
  
It turned out Arthur was late for a dinner engagement and so couldn’t pick it up until after nine; by then, Merlin intended to be fast asleep. So they made plans to meet in the morning in the lobby for the handover. Merlin snorted as they hung up. Sensitive information. Who did this guy think he was, James Bond?

  


***

  
The next morning Merlin strolled down to the lobby at eight o’clock, only to come face to face with an agitated looking Arthur.  
  
“You’re late,” he accused.  
  
Merlin glanced at the wall clock, which read eight-oh-three. “You’re insane.”  
  
“Where is it?”  
  
Merlin fished the phone out of his back pocket, trying to ignore the smell of Arthur’s expensive cologne, the way one lock of hair fell onto his forehead as if trying escape the otherwise perfect order of his person.  
  
He held out the phone. Arthur snatched it from his hands and immediately started scrolling through messages, his frown growing deeper.  
  
“Did you read these?” he asked.  
  
Merlin felt his ears redden. “Not . . . really.”  
  
Arthur raised his head and narrowed his eyes, giving Merlin a once over.  
  
“You’re wearing the same clothes you did yesterday.”  
  
It wasn’t exactly the answer Merlin had expected, so he looked down at his Shins tee shirt and jeans. He didn’t know what was stranger¬—that Arthur remembered what he wore yesterday, or that he was flattered and somewhat pleased by that revelation.  
  
“Yeah. Well, they lost my bag, so . . .” He gestured helplessly.  
  
“They lost your bag?” Arthur repeated. God, he had such an intense gaze. It made Merlin uncomfortable, wriggly in his skin.  
  
Merlin nodded, but he was experiencing one of those meta-awareness moments when everything one says or does seems completely staged.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, “just my luck.”  
  
“Did they compensate you?”  
  
“Not yet. It’s not considered lost until they can’t find it for a week, I guess. By then I’ll be back home.”  
  
Arthur looked like he’d just eaten something particularly distasteful.  
  
“Let me make a call.”  
  
Before Merlin could stop him, Arthur turned round, started punching at his phone. Merlin stood trying to intervene and being ignored while Arthur berated whatever hapless customer service agent had the unlucky privilege of answering his call. It felt like forever had passed, Merlin becoming increasingly desperate—he hated the idea of being horrible to someone he’d never met, even if they did work for a shitty airline—until Arthur finally hung up.  
  
“They’re giving you a three-hundred pound credit on your next flight,” he said. “It should have been more.”  
  
“Um . . .” Merlin said, biting his lip in confusion. “Thanks?”  
  
“It’s no matter,” Arthur said, head cocking to the side. “You should have demanded the credit when they lost your bag.”  
  
Merlin’s hackles rose again. “Yeah, well they explained the policy and I’m not—”  
  
Arthur cut him off, held up his hand while the words _an entitled ass, like you_ ran through Merlin’s head. Arthur’s phone was ringing.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
On the other end of the line, whoever was talking was laying into Arthur. Merlin suspected he knew who it was.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Merlin sighed, crossed his arms while the infuriating man in front of him continued his conversation as if Merlin wasn’t standing there. Wait, why was he still standing there? Merlin could leave at any moment, go back to his room and—  
  
“ _Yes,_ Father.”  
  
The words stopped Merlin just before he turned around. He felt something like sympathy, or empathy, or another inexplicable emotion he had no business experiencing. Instead of leaving, he made a show of pretending to examine a painting on the wall—some floral horror by Thomas Kincaid.  
  
He was so busy concentrating on not paying attention to Arthur, a soft voice at his ear startled him. “Have dinner with me tonight. As a thank you.”  
  
Merlin nearly leapt out of his skin. He turned around to face Arthur, who stood not a foot away. It was close . . . too close.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Dinner. You do eat, don’t you?” Arthur looked him up and down again, and this time Merlin shivered, but not from nerves. Something else had crept into Arthur’s gaze and it made Merlin feel hot and cold and tingly all over. He hardly knew what he was doing.  
  
“I eat. But I’m a vegetarian.”  
  
Merlin didn’t fail to note the brief flicker of irritation on Arthur’s face, which quickly faded.  
  
“That will be fine. I’ll collect you at eight.”  
  
“At eight?”  
  
“Yes. And I’d prefer for you to wear something a little more . . . formal.”  
  
Merlin shook his head, sputtering in disbelief. “I haven’t even said I’ll go out with you yet.”  
  
If Arthur had given him a cocky smirk at then, that would have been it. No way would Merlin have said yes.  
  
But he didn’t. He looked at Merlin with disappointment and uncertainty, a combination that made him appear vulnerable. It made Merlin want to apologize for something he’d never even done.  
  
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have—”  
  
“Okay,” Merlin said, cutting Arthur off. “Eight it is.”  
  
He had exactly twelve hours to figure out what the fuck he was doing.

  


***

Merlin spent the rest of the day sightseeing and shopping for clothes. He had no doubt they’d be going to an expensive restaurant, and though he was tempted to wear jeans and a ratty tee in spite of Arthur’s dictate, in the end he chose a button-down shirt and light wool pants that were much pricier than anything he owned back home. But hey, they made his ass look good, and Merlin wasn’t above a vanity purchase every now and then.  
  
He also visited the Tower and rode the London eye (despite his fear of heights), settling into the rhythm of the city as the day wore on. London was better than he’d imagined. He delighted in the grey March sky, the way people said _cheers_ when they gave him his change, how it was completely normal to have a pint—or two—with lunch. Accents still charmed him; he even picked up a couple phrases and practiced them silently under his breath. Merlin had been to cities before, but he’d never been somewhere that had instantly felt so comfortable. Perhaps it was an illusion spun by his fondness for British literature. As a graduate student at Indiana he’d studied Dickens and fallen in love with what he knew was an overly idealized notion of England. Even so, he viewed the end of the week with a growing sense of unease. Only six more days, and then he’d be back to his ordinary life, back to Idaho to a small town to teach children who couldn’t care less about Chaucer or Shakespeare or Keats, who gave him dirty looks when he tried to make them use dictionaries to look up words they didn’t know.  
  
It was nothing short of depressing. But he couldn’t spare too long a thought for that because of his imminent . . . dinner. Date? Was it a date?  
  
Merlin wasn’t sure what he’d agreed to, really, and so he showered and dressed in his new clothes, smoothing down his unruly hair and checking himself in the mirror. He’d never been sure of his appearance, but the new clothes and the new city inspired a kind of confidence. He squared his shoulders and went downstairs to meet whatever lay in store.  
  
Punctual as ever, Arthur stood in the lobby at eight sharp wearing a dark, perfectly tailored suit. When he heard Merlin’s footfalls he turned and smiled, the first Merlin’s ever seen on his face. It suited him, perhaps too well. Fuck, the guy was gorgeous—a gorgeous asshole with daddy issues. Perfect.  
  
“Hi,” Merlin said.  
  
“Hello, Merlin. Good to see you again.” Arthur thrust out his hand, a ridiculously formal gesture that almost made Merlin laugh. It was becoming clear that Arthur had some sort of severe multiple personality disorder.  
  
“And . . . you,” he replied. They stood for a second, sizing each other up. Arthur’s stance suggested discomfort, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. Well, that made two of them.  
  
“So . . . where are we going?” Merlin asked to break the silence.  
  
“An Ethiopian place. Just opened.”  
  
“Great,” Merlin said, perking up. “I love Ethiopian.” It was surprising Arthur’d picked such an intimate dining experience, seeing as though they hardly knew each other and what they _did_ know wasn’t exceedingly positive. But if he didn’t feel the need for forks or spoons, then neither did Merlin.  
  
Arthur nodded. “I thought you might.”  
  
They began walking toward the exit, Merlin catching the eye of the woman behind the desk of the hotel. She raised her eyebrows at him as if to say, _nice work._ Merlin shrugged.  
  
Arthur had a private car ready and waiting at the curb. Merlin slid into the back seat behind Arthur, eyes widening when he noted the full bar at the right, the plush leather seats that molded to his ass like butter.  
  
“Scotch?” Arthur asked as the driver pulled away.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Merlin accepted the drink, poured neat, and took a sip.  
  
“So,” he said, “do you usually find acting rudely a good way to get strangers to go dinner with you?” he asked, emboldened by the whiskey warming his veins.  
  
Arthur’s stoic expression slipped, and he laughed.  
  
“I’m not sure. Was it effective?”  
  
“I’m not sure. Is this a date?”  
  
“Do you want it to be?” Arthur widened his legs, leaning back and regarding Merlin with a sleepy, sensuous expression.  
  
“I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not sure what’s inspired this change of heart, if it is a change of heart. You’ve been a complete arse to me and . . .”  
  
“ _Arse_?” Arthur chuckled and Merlin reddened, embarrassed he’d let one of his Brit-appropriations slip out. He gestured vaguely.  
  
“When in Rome, and all.”  
  
“Right. Well back to your objection. I’m . . .” Arthur grimaced.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“Yes. I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad time. I’m not usually that much of an _arse_.”  
  
Merlin raised his eyebrows, letting his skepticism show. “Why am I having a hard time believing that?”  
  
“You weren’t exactly a peach when we met either, _Mer_ lin.”  
  
Merlin frowned, crossed his arms. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Well, for one, you were intentionally baiting me.”  
  
“ _Baiting_ you?”  
  
“You were drumming on the armrest when I was trying to sleep, I suspect to intentionally annoy me.”  
  
Merlin sighed, exasperated. “That was only after you insulted my entire family . . . _a wild pack of uncouth buffoons_ , I believe was the phrase.”  
  
“You called me an entitled dick.”  
  
“Only because you complained about having to sit next to an illiterate Republican. I’m neither, by the way.”  
  
“Good to know.” Arthur was grinning now, the tentative smile from earlier had disappeared; and, God help him, Merlin realized he was grinning too. “But I confess I wasn’t having the best day. I had an argument with my father, and our relationship can be . . . difficult.”  
  
“Is your father Uther Pendragon?”  
  
“I thought you didn’t read my messages.”  
  
“It was impossible not to read a couple—they were right there on the screen. But I didn’t go snooping.”  
  
“Much.”  
  
“Much,” Merlin agreed.  
  
Arthur took another sip of his whiskey. “So can we agree that we got off on the wrong foot?”  
  
“I suppose we can agree . . . if you say you’re sorry.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
Merlin smiled, the warm feeling in his belly having less to do with the whiskey than was perhaps wise.  
  
They pulled up in front of the restaurant and got out, Merlin trailing after Arthur and trying not to stare at the fine figure he cut in his suit. The hostess led them to a floor level table near the back of the restaurant, a dimly lit alcove replete with crimson cushions and African décor that bordered on kitschy.  
  
“This is nice,” Merlin said, folding his legs as comfortably as he could under the table.  
  
“Mmm-hmm.” Arthur’s knees bumped into Merlin’s, and an awkward moment passed where they attempted to get settled without playing footsie.  
  
“Been here before, then?” Merlin asked.  
  
“Of course.” Arthur was clearly lying, pouring over the menu as if it was the Dead Sea Scrolls.  
  
“Well, I’ll get whatever you recommend, then.”  
  
When they ordered, Arthur selected pretty much every vegetarian option on the menu. Merlin just bit his lip, trying not to laugh as the waiter’s eyes widened. They’d clearly ordered enough to feed a small army.  
  
“Why _did_ you ask me here tonight?” Merlin asked. “Just out of curiosity.”  
  
“You returned my phone. I just wanted to show my appreciation.”  
  
“Yeah, but that wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t have to take me to dinner.” He wanted to make a joke, like _not when a quick fuck would have sufficed_ , but they weren’t exactly on those terms.  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur said, staring at the drink in his hand.  
  
“Okaaay,” Merlin replied, feeling uncomfortable. He took a sip of his beer and looked away, wondering why he’d come.  
  
“I liked the way you talked back to me,” Arthur said. “It’s . . . not something I’m used to.”  
  
“Oh,” Merlin said. He set down his beer and crossed folded his hands on the table. Memories of Arthur on the plane came rushing back. “I figured you probably weren’t.”  
  
Arthur grimaced. “I’m a walking cliché, aren’t I?”  
  
“Just a bit.”  
  
They both laughed, and after that, things lightened up a bit. It turned out Arthur wasn’t such a horrible ass, after all.  
  
When the food came, Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. The waiter placed a giant platter on the table between them along with a pile of flat bread to sop it up.  
  
“Um . . . can we have forks?” Arthur asked before he’d gone.  
  
The waiter gave Merlin a pained look, and Merlin waved him off. It was very tempting to tease Arthur, and Merlin wasn’t sure he was above it, but he’d seen the vulnerability under Arthur’s staid exterior and couldn’t bring himself to mock.  
  
“You don’t eat Ethiopian food with utensils. You just have to pick up the food with the bread,” Merlin said, tearing off a piece to demonstrate. “Like this.”  
  
The food was delicious; not too spicy or oily, and Merlin grinned around his mouthful.  
  
“Of course,” Arthur replied, doing the same. He shoved the bite in his mouth and chewed, looking surprised.  
  
“It’s spongy.”  
  
“Yeah, the bread? Isn’t it good?”  
  
“It’s not bad.”  
  
They ate, gathering the food up with their fingers, occasionally brushing hands. It was messy and lovely and suddenly Merlin was having a fabulous time. It was nice to see Arthur so relaxed.  
  
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what was the argument with your father about?” Merlin asked. They’d finished and were having an after-dinner drink.  
  
Arthur sighed, ducked his head, and Merlin regretted asking the question.  
  
“It’s just . . . not . . .”  
  
“We don’t have to talk about it.”  
  
“No, it’s . . . my father and I have never seen eye to eye on certain things. He’s got it in his head for me to marry.”  
  
“Oh?” Merlin couldn’t quite account for the sinking feeling the statement inspired.  
  
“Yes. And I’m not particularly fond of his choice in partners.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well, for one, she’s a woman.”  
  
Merlin nodded in understanding; he’d been blessed with parents who’d always accepted his sexuality, but he knew many gay people weren’t so lucky.  
  
“It’s okay. I suppose it evens out, as he doesn’t approve of my career.”  
  
“Really? Why?” It seemed Arthur was quite successful, a son that any father should feel proud of.  
  
“That, Merlin, is a story for another date.”  
  
“A little presumptuous, aren’t we?” Merlin teased.  
  
Arthur smiled, his eyes bright. “You’re here for a week, aren’t you?”  
  
Merlin grinned back. “I am.”  
  
They stayed at the restaurant until closing, ordering drink after drink. As the night drew on, Merlin started noticing troublingly charming things about Arthur, like the way he tugged his bottom lip between forefinger and thumb when he was listening, how he stood when Merlin went to use the bathroom even though it was difficult to get up from the floor and Merlin was neither old-fashioned, nor a girl.  
  
He had begun to create a narrative in his mind, and it was of a very repressed, very eager man who’d lived his life trying to please his father and never really lived himself.  
  
Merlin told Arthur about his teaching, how he’d wanted to go further in school but hadn’t been able to afford not working. He tried to explain his love for Dickens and Hardy, and Arthur watched with a bemused expression, nodding and pulling on his lip.  
  
Finally, the waiter gave them the eye, letting them know it was nearing closing.  
  
“Do you want to do something else?” Arthur said. “Something a bit mad?”  
  
“Um . . . I don’t know. Is it legal?”  
  
“Everything’s legal when you know the right people.”  
  
“I see,” Merlin said, feeling a bit silly. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do something _a bit mad_.”  
  
Arthur excused himself to make a call.

***

The ride took about fifteen minutes, and since Arthur wouldn’t tell him where they were going, he spent the time silently contemplating scenarios. The last thing he expected was to pull up in front of Westminster Abbey in the middle of the night.  
  
“What _are_ we doing?” Merlin hissed. He’d planned to visit the Abbey in the morning during tour hours.  
  
“Visiting your friend, Mr. Dickens.”  
  
“Oh god, we’re not breaking in are we?”  
  
Arthur turned, pausing before the great door. The cathedral rose up before them, gothic and imposing in the night.  
  
“Certainly not.” He rapped at the door. Astonishingly enough, a few seconds later it creaked open.  
  
A man appeared, squinted, hand on his baton.  
  
“Good evening, Lord Pendragon,” the security guard said, standing up straight. He had distinguished grey hair, and his uniform was impeccable.  
  
“Good evening, Gaius. My guest and I would just like a look around.”  
  
“Of course, M’ Lord,” the guard said, widening the door.  
  
 _Wait . . . M’Lord?_  
  
Merlin’s dawning realization was paused as they stepped inside. Cool, musty air curled around them, making a shiver shoot up Merlin’s spine.  
  
“Anything in particular you’d like to see?” The guard—Gaius—asked.  
  
Clearing his throat, Merlin spoke up. “Poet’s Corner?”  
  
“Right you are, Sir. This way.”  
  
“So you’re not really just a banker, are you?” Merlin hissed in Arthur’s ear as they were led down the nave.  
  
“No. My father is the Duke of Norfolk,” Arthur said, his voice hushed but still echoing in the antechamber.  
  
“Holy shit,” Merlin said, “so what does that make you?”  
  
“The son of the Duke of Norfolk. Relax,” Arthur said, giving him a smirk. “I’m only twenty-eighth in line for the throne.”  
  
“Twenty-eighth?” Merlin’s voice had grown high-pitched, but he couldn’t help it. “Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You could have told me!”  
  
“Told you what?”  
  
“That I was going out with a . . . a . . . royal!”  
  
“Merlin, you can’t walk around in London without bumping into a bloody royal. And I’m technically a peer, though the Queen’s my father’s third cousin or some such rot.”  
  
“Yeah. Right,” Merlin said, still flabbergasted. By then, Gaius had steered them toward the right. The whole place was only dimly lit, but when he looked down Merlin realized he was standing on Sir Alfred, Lord Tennyson. He stepped off the grave, surprised, bumping into Arthur in the process and coming to land on Gerard Manly Hopkins.  
  
“Wow,” Merlin said, looking down at the marker. “This place is an embarrassment of riches.”  
  
“And here’s your good friend,” Arthur said, tugging on his arm.  
  
Merlin allowed himself to be led, hyper-aware of how close Arthur was, how spicy he smelled. “Incredible.”  
  
“It’s probably better to come during the day, when it’s easier to see, but I hear it can get very crowded.”  
  
“This . . . no, this is great.” Merlin said, blushing and thankful for the dim light. Arthur’s face looked soft, and his lips were just slightly parted. Another shiver ran down Merlin’s spine, this one not from the cool air. He bent down to clear his head, ran his hand over the name.  
  
“Ah, an admirer of The Sparkler of Albion, are you?” Gaius’s voice came from behind him.  
  
“Who?” Arthur asked.  
  
“It was Dickens’ self-fashioned nickname, M’Lord. He fancied himself a modern day Shakespeare.”  
  
“Didn’t have much of an ego, did he?” Arthur snorted.  
  
“He was also an epileptic,” Gaius continued. “And would have, if he lived today, been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Fascinating things, the lives of the poets.”  
  
“I can think of a thing or two more fascinating,” Arthur muttered under his breath.  
  
Merlin stood from his crouched position and elbowed Arthur in the side before turning and smiling at the old man. “Ignore him,” he told Gaius. “I think it’s _very_ fascinating.”  
  
At that, the guard’s face lit up, and he proceeded to give them all sorts of information about the writers interred—affairs, idiosyncrasies, personal tragedies. Some of the stories were familiar, others seemed apocryphal, but Merlin enjoyed them all. Even Arthur listened with interest, always a warm presence by Merlin’s side.  
  
Accidental touches between them gradually became laced with more intent, until Merlin found himself holding Arthur’s hand, fingers laced together. He was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on their private tour, but if Gaius noticed he didn’t let on.  
  
Soon nearly two hours had passed, and Merlin’s jetlag was starting to take a decided toll. He stifled a yawn, not wanting the night to end.  
  
“It’s getting late,” Arthur told the guard, giving Merlin a concerned look. “But thank you so much for everything, Gaius.”  
  
“No problem at all M’Lord,” Gaius said. “It’s pleasant having the company.”  
  
Though he was exhausted, Merlin was overcome. “I’ll never forget this. Thank you,” he said, offering his hand.  
  
“If you’re ever back in London, come see me again, young man. You’re always welcome.”  
  
“I will,” Merlin replied, swallowing away the lump in his throat. “Thank you again.”  
  
Outside it had started to rain. They hurried towards Arthur’s car, sliding inside. Merlin sat across from Arthur, body thrumming with the silent tension between them.  
  
The driver pulled away from the curb, and Arthur regarded Merlin with his serious eyes.  
  
Not giving himself a chance to think, Merlin launched himself across the seat to straddle Arthur’s lap, capturing his mouth in a demanding, open-mouthed kiss. Arthur’s hands immediately went to his back, pulling him close. Their tongues tangled together as the car lurched and splashed through windy London streets.  
  
“Come home with me,” Arthur said, panting when they finally broke apart.  
  
Merlin nodded. “Fuck yeah.”  
  
Arthur’s place wasn’t as lavish as Merlin had expected, but it was huge. They’d managed to break away from each other long enough to get inside, but now Arthur was mouthing at his neck, dominating his lips with sweet, sucking kisses. Merlin was sure he’d never been so aroused; it was alarming and exhilarating all at once.  
  
“This is crazy,” he said, eyes rolling back as his fingers dug into the solid muscle of Arthur’s back. “I never do things like this.”  
  
“Neither do I.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really . . . there’s just . . . something about you, Merlin.” Up close, Arthur’s eyes were incredibly blue. Sincere. Merlin nodded, kissed him again.  
  
That first night they brought each other off with their mouths and their hands, falling into an exhausted tangle of limbs. It wasn’t a question of whether Merlin was spending the night. In the morning, Merlin came to consciousness with an erection poking into his backside. He settled back, wrapped an arm around Arthur’s neck, sighed as fingers slid down to open him, warm and slick with lube.  
  
Arthur took him from behind with long, leisurely strokes, and when they came it was with Arthur’s cock deep inside, Merlin’s pulsing in Arthur’s hand.  
  
“I have to work,” Arthur said, voice wistful. Merlin was still coming down from his orgasm, blissful and dozing in Arthur’s arms.  
  
“I’m only here for a week,” Merlin said. “Can’t you call in sick?”  
  
“I’ve never called in sick.”  
  
“All the more reason.” He propped himself up, trailed a finger through Arthur’s chest hair. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I need a good tour guide and you apparently fit the bill.”  
  
Arthur’s furrowed brow relaxed. “That’s all you want? A tour guide?”  
  
“Well, I also want sex. I’d say it’s a win-win situation.”  
  
“You drive a hard bargain, _Mer_ lin.”  
  
“I’m a middle school teacher,” said Merlin. “Bribery’s part of my job.”

***

Arthur did call in that day. And the next. And the next. They spent their time exploring London, doing all of the touristy things and some not-so-touristy things. It turned out that, when he wasn’t stressed out working fifteen-hour days, Arthur was fun . . . and a little bit kinky. He took Merlin to a club and jerked him off as they danced, mouths licking sweat, lost in the crowd among other male bodies. It hadn’t taken Arthur more than a few grinds against Merlin’s hip for Arthur to come, hand shoved down Merlin’s pants.  
  
“You like getting off in public?” Merlin asked later back at Arthur’s place. He’d given up even the pretense of staying at his hotel.  
  
Arthur pulled at his lip, raised his eyebrow. “Maybe.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a _yes, definitely_.” He laughed and Arthur frowned. “It’s okay,” Merlin added, eager to rid Arthur of his anxious expression. “I like it, too.”  
  
By the fourth day, Merlin realized he was in trouble.  
  
Arthur was everything he’d ever wanted and didn’t think he’d ever find, and yet they lived in different fucking countries. It would never work. Impossible.  
  
Yet the fact remained he was falling for Arthur, and falling hard.  
  
They didn’t talk about it, Merlin’s leaving, but even so it colored their time together, making it bittersweet.  
  
On the last day, Merlin and Arthur took a long walk through London. They visited a few outdoor markets and ate good food, and all the while Merlin’s stomach twisted in knots. His flight left at eight a.m. the next day. Every second that passed was like an affront.  
  
“Hey,” Arthur said late in the afternoon. They were sitting on a bench, resting their feet, Arthur’s arm slung around Merlin’s shoulders. “What are you thinking about?”  
  
Merlin blew out a sigh. “Just tomorrow.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”  
  
Merlin felt the soft press of Arthur’s lips against his temple, but instead of soothing him, the kiss made him more miserable.  
  
“This sucks.”  
  
“It does. But maybe we could . . .”  
  
Merlin turned, shook his head. “Don’t . . . you know it’s unrealistic as much as I do.”  
  
“Right,” Arthur said, voice pained. Merlin wished, he fucking wished it made any sense, but a trans-Atlantic relationship would never work. Arthur was far too busy, and Merlin was far too poor for frequent flying.  
  
“Well,” Arthur said, kissing him again. “We’ll just have to make the most of the time we have left.”  
  
Merlin looked away, hot tears pricking at his eyes. “Okay.”  
  
The next day Arthur wanted to drive Merlin to the airport, but Merlin knew he couldn’t deal with it. He gently insisted on calling a taxi instead.  
  
Arthur walked him out to the curb.  
  
“I don’t want to go,” Merlin said. The pained look on Arthur’s face made him feel sick. Even though the cab was idling and he was about to be late for his flight, he couldn’t let go of Arthur’s hand.  
  
“I don’t want you to go, either.”  
  
Merlin’s mind raced with crazy thoughts—he lived in a town he hated, doing a job he no longer enjoyed.  
  
And he was in love. In love with London and with Arthur.  
  
His heart was thrumming so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. He turned to Arthur, unsure of everything, knowing none of this was practical or rational.  
  
“What if . . . I didn’t have to go?”  
  
“What?” Arthur’s grip tightened. He pulled Merlin close, eyes searching.  
  
“Um . . . I don’t really know what I’m saying but god I think I’m in love with you and what if I just stayed for a while and . . . maybe . . .” He trailed off, waiting for Arthur’s response, full of second thoughts because what if Arthur was just being polite when he said he didn’t want Merlin to go and what if he didn’t feel the same and what if . . .  
  
“Do you really mean it? Please tell me you mean it.” Arthur’s smile touched his eyes, lit up his face.  
  
“Yeah . . . I mean it.”  
  
“Thank god. Because I think I’m in love with you, too.”  
  
After that, all else faded except for Arthur’s lips on his and Arthur’s hands in his hair, the foreboding that had been weighing his chest gone, replaced with a surge of joy that made him want to laugh. So he did. He laughed crazily and kissed Arthur again and again.  
  
“You lads having second thoughts on this trip then?” The voice startled them, made them turn, Arthur’s arms still firmly around him. The cabbie was leaning against the side of his car, a bemused expression on his face.  
  
Merlin grinned. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be taking my flight, after all.”


End file.
